CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Kate
I’ve bottled all of that for so long. But something about Michael asking me to say something honest somehow flips a weird little switch in me.
It’s always been easy to be real around him. From the very first time I met him, I didn’t have to pretend. Or worry about putting on my best smile. With Michael, I could just be… irritated. Angry. Annoyed. Amused. Whatever feeling it was, it slipped out easily.
And somewhere along the way, it stopped being just anger and irritation. It became these things too. The fears. The feelings I kept bottled up because I was afraid of being judged, or worse, disliked.
Turns out, this is what real honesty is like—the way someone makes it feel natural to hand over pieces of yourself you didn’t even mean to share. And even when the confessions were unplanned, it didn’t feel like a risk. Only relief.
We reach the end of the Ferris wheel ride, and honestly, I barely felt it even though we went for two rounds since the operator dozed off for a minute. Totally safe, by the way!
But I’m still not over that conversation, because no one’s ever asked me that before. People always assume I was fine. That I’m okay. Or maybe that my feelings are usually pushed to the side to make way for someone else’s. But now, I feel like the most important person in the world.
Maybe I’m being delusional, but I allow myself to bask in that tonight.
“Sorry about that,” I say as we get out of the ride and back to solid ground. “Too much?”
We walk aimlessly around the park. I’m sure this amusement park is much better in daylight, but the midnight breeze makes everything eerie. More serious. More dramatic than it should be. And that’s what I’m choosing to blame for my weird feelings tonight.
He shakes his head, gaze steady. “That was perfect, honestly,” he says. “I’ve been feeling the same way.”
I raise a brow. “You’ve been dreaming about having a family and opening a bakery with a chalkboard menu?”
He chuckles. “No. But… I’ve been wondering what life looks like if I stop letting it happen to me. If I stop doing things just because it’s what’s expected.”
“You mean basketball?”
He looks at me for a moment, then says, “Yeah. And everything that comes with it. People think this life is all glitz—flights, hotels, commercials. But you start young, and you get good, and then it becomes your whole identity. It stops being a choice.”
I stay quiet, then he glances at me again. “But I’m fine,” he says.
“That’s what someone who isn’t fine would say.”
“You’d know, wouldn’t you?” he asks, and I nod in response.
No other open rides look good, so we’re buying a few granola bars and soda cans from the nearest food stall. I look at him, as he says, “Well, there are days I love it. Most days I do. But there are days I wonder who I’d be without it.”
“And?” I ask, voice soft. “Who would you be?” We take a seat on one of the benches, holding our sad snacks.
He exhales a laugh. “No idea. That’s what scares me. I’ve never made space to figure that out.”
He exhales slowly, eyes fixed on the random light radiating from one of the carnival games.
“You know… when I shoved that ref, everyone scrambled to explain it. Most people defended me. Said there must’ve been some deeper reason.
Pressure. Burnout. A personal loss. Something dramatic.
” He pauses, voice tight. “But I’m so ashamed to admit that there wasn’t. ”
I didn’t expect him to unpack this tonight, if ever. I remember seeing that news about him. My first thought was that he was inconsiderate. Hot-headed. Another athlete with an attitude. But I never really asked him why.
He looks down at his hands. “It wasn’t deep.
It wasn’t noble. He just said something…
” he trails off. I don’t push for him to say it, but after a few seconds, he continues.
“First, I told him he made a bad call.” He swallows.
“And then, he said, ‘I can blow one bad call and keep my job. But if you snap, your whole career’s gone. You’ll be nobody. ’”
My breath catches.
Michael lets out a bitter laugh. “And the worst part is… he was right. That’s what got me. Not the call. Not the pressure. Not even him. Just the fact that what he said hit a nerve I’ve been trying to outrun my whole life.”
“Which is?” I ask, softly.
“That I’m only worth something as long as I perform.”
He shrugs. “And that’s why I’ve always told people not to defend me. Because I didn’t deserve to be defended. I acted on my emotions. My insecurities. So, it’s a mistake. A mistake I’m not used to. So when it happened, I kinda just wanted to disappear.” He clears his throat.
“I apologized to the ref,” he says. “Immediately after that game. And he forgave me. He even appeared in interviews after that, saying that it was the intensity of the game or something. Still,” he adds. “He didn’t deserve that.”
Michael looks alarmingly different tonight.
I haven’t seen this version of him before.
In his media interviews, he was always quick and direct to the point.
He never showed a slight crack of emotion.
And even I see him as the collected one.
The cool one. The person who walks into a room and somehow never tries, never flinches.
I figured someone like him didn’t get shaken.
Not like this. But now I realize—I’ve been looking at the polished surface without noticing the cracks underneath.
I place the soda can beside me, and reach for his hand.
He looks at me, surprised, but he doesn’t let go.
Instead he puts his other hand over mine, and he continues talking.
“I’ve spent so long pretending everything rolls off me,” he says.
“That I’m calm. Chill. Unbothered. But I think I just got scared that time.
Scared that I really am nobody if I’m not all this. ”
We eat in silence for a while, and the breeze ruffles his hair. He runs a hand over it, and I feel the giddy feelings in my chest again.
I glance over at him. The words are already climbing up my throat before I can stop them.
“For the record,” I say, carefully, “even if you weren’t Michael Lee the athlete… you’d still be Michael.”
He doesn’t react. So I keep going.
“You’d still be the guy who helped my Lolo fix his phone. Who bought me a stand mixer just because I mentioned it in passing. You’re someone who shows up for people, even when you don’t have to. You remember the smallest things and pretend like it’s no big deal.”
I shake my head, heart full. “You’re thoughtful. Funny. Annoying, but… kind.”
He runs his hand over his hair again because the wind is getting stronger.
I glance away before I start memorizing the way a single strand falls on his forehead.
He doesn’t realize what he’s doing to me just by existing like this—unguarded, layered, painfully human.
And beautiful. So stupidly beautiful I could scream.
Ugh. Why does he have to be attractive? It was a lot easier to ignore when he’s arrogant and mean. But now, he’s also kind. And honest. And I don’t have a reason to hate him anymore.
And what happens when the war is over?
Michael says, softly, “No one ever said that to me before.”
I look at him in confusion. “What part?”
“That I’d still be… me. Even if I wasn’t the guy in the jersey.”
He leans back against the bench, stretching his legs out in front of him. “Most people, when they try to comfort me, they talk about legacy. Or my stats. Or how I’ve already proven myself.” He glances sideways. “But not you.”
I wrap myself tighter with the cardigan. “I mean, those things are cool too. But I just… really don’t care about sports.”
He laughs, full-on this time, and the sound does something weird to my stomach. Not butterflies. More like a startled frog. Still movement, though.
“I figured,” he says. “Which is maybe why this all feels different.”
“What does?”
“This.” He gestures between us with a small shrug. “Being here. Talking like this. It’s not about who I’m supposed to be. You’re not impressed by my highlight reel.”
“I’ve never even seen your highlight reel,” I admit. “But I’ve seen you eat every single cookie I made. And bring snacks to kids. And make my mom laugh. So… yeah. That’s more impressive, I think.”
He smiles at me and scoots closer. “Thank you,” he says. “I’m still not sure what I’d do if I weren’t playing basketball, but it’s nice to know it wouldn’t matter to at least one person.” He traces lazy circles on the back of my hand.
“And not just one person,” he adds. “You.”
I feel the heat crawl up my neck, even as the air nips at my cheeks.
I know this moment. I’ve read about it. Dreamed about it. The stillness. The nearness. The split-second of breath before something changes.
And I get the urge—that urge—to lean in.
Because, I realize, in this moment, under the soft light, surrounded by the smell of pine trees and a sky full of stars, we’re both beginning to be seen.
Not for what we do, but for who we are. Messy, unresolved fragments.
People who are unsure of what to do with their lives.
People who have lived under the impression that we have to live up to other people’s expectations.
Here, with him, I feel like none of those things matter. It’s like I can be myself, even when that “self” is still someone I’ve only just met.
And for a second, I think he feels it too. Because he leans in. Slowly.
Our faces are close, and I swear I can hear my heartbeat echoing in my ears.
Maybe I really do like him, despite my best efforts not to.
Maybe this really is the start of something I’ve always wanted but never actively sought.
Maybe this is what the first real kiss of my life is supposed to feel like.
And then the rollercoaster above us grinds to life with a loud, rusty groan like someone dragging a metal trash can across concrete.
I burst into laughter—startled, giddy, slightly breathless. Michael leans back, chuckling too, rubbing the back of his neck.
The moment’s gone. But something lingers.
He doesn’t scoot away. If anything, he shifts just enough that our shoulders brush. And we stay like this. Shoulder to shoulder, watching the empty amusement park blink sleepily around us.
Not kissing.
But still something.